


Reverb

by intodusk



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, Trans Female Character, band au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25788196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intodusk/pseuds/intodusk
Summary: Taylor joins a band at a cute girl's request and becomes embroiled in Brockton Bay's less-than-legal underground music scene. No powers other than power chords and the power to move you.
Relationships: Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver/Lisa Wilbourn | Tattletale
Comments: 19
Kudos: 95





	1. Ionian

Fish swam, birds flew, and Taylor played guitar.  
  
The Lord Street Market was a great place to busk. Middle class families too poor for the Boardwalk but too rich for pawn shops passed through all weekend, patronizing the artists, artisans and food trucks. Cash only policies meant they usually had a fiver to drop into a hat and the folks that ran the stands were always happy to have a performer around to draw interest. Most importantly, the open air and absence of cars meant even an acoustic guitar could be heard from across the block.  
  
Taylor wasn't at the Market. Her corner was a ways north, among the laundromats and family restaurants that served the less affluent neighborhoods. Most on their way to or from Lord Street were there to run the stands, not buy from them, and their earnings would be going toward food and rent. The commercial ecosystem of the fringes operated under more noticeable disrepair: litter crusted the narrow alleys, cracks scarred the sidewalks, yellow-orange leaves clogged the storm drains. Narrow roads and midday traffic muffled her sound.  
  
It beat playing Rock Bottom, though not by much.  
  
She warmed up with a few easy songs, all straightforward chords and basic licks. When she’d settled into the comfort of muscle memory she started pulling out more complicated techniques, stranger progressions, tougher melodies. Recognizable tunes spiced up with harmonics and arpeggios earned the pocket change of some passersby. Her eyes stayed open only to keep clever fingers from her open case.  
  
At one point a girl around her age took a seat on the bus stop bench, near enough to listen while she ate. She wasn't conspicuously rich but it wasn't hard to tell she didn't belong in this part of town. Her clothes weren't frayed or pilling anywhere, her shoes were too clean, and her straight blonde hair was too perfect. Her sandwich smelled delicious, some deli meat or other garnished with tomatoes and basil and cut into halves. It made Taylor’s stomach growl.  
  
To distract herself, she segued into a real challenge. The piece was a juggling act in 6/8, making her swap between rapid string tapping and percussive claps on the hollow body of her guitar. The alternating thump, slap, thump, slap marked the downbeats, laying the foundation for the winding melody. The climax called for more complicated percussion, but she’d not gotten that down yet, so she bit her lip and repeated a tap section instead.  
  
By the time the last chord faded out and she came back to reality, the girl on the bench was gone. Alarm jolted through her and she hurried to turn her case around, expecting it to be empty.  
  
Instead she found all the quarters and crumpled ones she’d accumulated, plus a crisp twenty dollar bill and a clear plastic bag containing half a sandwich wrapped in deli paper.  
  
She looked down the street and around the corner but the blonde was nowhere to be seen.  
  
The money went into the pocket of her too-big olive parka and her guitar took the bag's place. She closed the case and scurried down the nearest alley. The only real cover was a dumpster so she ducked behind it, sitting cross-legged on the hard pavement. She cradled the case in her lap to keep it from touching the ground and hunched over it so whatever was in the sandwich didn't drip onto it.  
  
The sandwich looked as good as it smelled. She opened it up, eyeing the components closely. The meat and veggies seemed perfectly fresh, more so than anything she'd eaten in the last month. The thin sheen wetting the bread looked more like olive oil and vinegar than any poison she'd ever heard of. A voice in the back of her head pointed out that a poison that looked like poison would be a pretty terrible poison, but another voice in her empty gut howled like a rabid sports fan whose team was moments away from scoring. _Fucking take a bite already,_ it hollered. _Jesus H. Christ on rollerskates, eat the goddamn food!_  
  
After the first tiny, tentative nibble she decided that, if this was what arsenic tasted like, she'd just have to build an immunity.  
  
  


**|: / / / / :|**

  
  
The Market came and went with the sun, so when the sky melted into moody technicolor half the stands packed up for the day, boxing unsold goods and counting their earnings. The other half would hold out for the stragglers, clocking an extra half hour through twilight to snag additional sales.  
  
Taylor made a habit of showing up in those transitory periods, slipping into a spot some other busker left behind. It was usually safe for her to do so and she could make as much in thirty minutes as she had over three hours on some corner, sandwich-accompanied windfalls notwithstanding.  
  
Today she’d managed to land a bench in a rest area between stands, near a couple picnic tables and planters. The smell of popcorn and cotton candy wafted over from a snack booth and the chatter of shoppers settled into a low murmur. The atmosphere was soothing in a dangerous way.  
  
She tuned the low E string by ear, then tuned each successive string to the one before it. Once she’d tested it with a couple cowboy chords she settled back into her groove.  
  
On occasion she got an odd look from one of the shoppers, but that wasn’t unexpected; she stood out subtly, like the sandwich girl’s inverse. Her glasses were scratched in places and clouded by smudges that never fully rubbed out, her dirty chin-length curls were half-hidden beneath a too-large beanie, and her sneakers had faded so thoroughly it was impossible to tell they’d ever been any color but grey. Even her case’s fraying backpack straps were held together with duct tape and prayers.  
  
The judgement didn't bother her anymore. If her appearance gave someone pause, that gave her the chance to reel them in with her music. She could even make an extra buck or two off their misplaced pity.  
  
At some point she left her body to the automation of years of practice, as though turning on a player piano, and her mind began to wander. It was hard to see the people passing her by and not think back to days when she’d been counted among their number. Days when Mom and Dad had bribed her with greasy food to come along and street performers had wowed her into coming back. When her parents would give her the occasional fiver to drop into a hat. Being a little girl who’d smiled wide and earnest, worn her hair in braids, dressed in store-bought clothes and dreamt of putting on a performance of her own.  
  
“Excuse me.”  
  
She startled, her song taking a quick skid into dissonance. She muted the strings and turned her head, kicking herself for getting distracted.  
  
A bald man in a blue-grey button down and black pants was looming over her, furrowing his brow. He was stocky and stout, mild muscle padded by leisure and regular meals. His pen hovered over a ticket pad.  
  
“May I see your permit,” he said. It was clear from his tone and posture that he knew she couldn’t afford one.  
  
One hand gripping a case strap and the other secured on the neck of her guitar, she bolted off the bench, away from the enforcer.  
  
“Hey! You make me chase you, the fine doubles!”  
  
She sprinted down Lord Street and beyond, ducking through turns and side streets, using her long, lean legs to her advantage. It figured, she thought, that for every sandwich girl at the bus stop there’d be a bottom-barrel cop working overtime at the stands. Karma, perhaps, or simply divine punishment for thinking today might not be so bad.  
  
"Shit!"  
  
It didn’t take long to lose the dickhead. She doubted he’d exercised so much in weeks. She let herself lean against a streetlight for a moment. Her own breathing was a bit heavy, but it hadn’t gotten away from her.  
  
Unfortunately, the daylight had. Pallid grey had given way to the ember-orange glow of light pollution and there’d be no more busking on Lord Street today.  
  
Back to the corners, then. She pushed off the pole and headed north, fantasizing about an enforcer slipping on dog shit and performing a Charlie Brown-esque pratfall.  
  
  


**|: / / / / :|**

  
  
By the time she got close to home it was already dark. The train tracks had once been her guide, pointing the way to safety when she’d been young, lost and scared. Now they were the route to and from work, her daily commute. She hardly registered the crunch of ballast beneath her shoes.  
  
The salty breeze was crisp and cool, and the chill was starting to reach her gaunt frame through her layers. It was worse than it’d been the night before. She shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets and picked up her pace.  
  
When she reached the freight depot she turned onto the street, walking the last block’s distance. The chain link fence was hardly taller than her and she clambered over without much trouble.  
  
Uniform brick structures lined rows through the area, featuring garage doors on the long side at regular intervals. Most were closed, though a few were open, partway or fully, revealing glimpses of cardboard boxes, weathered furniture, and the occasional dim yellow light.  
  
A wiry man with colorful tattoos peeking out from the cuffs of his denim jacket stepped out of one of the lit units, pulling the door down behind him. He noticed her and turned, and even in the dark she could tell his straw-colored beard was getting scruffy again. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and held up a hand. “Hey, Rose.”  
  
“Hi Rusty. Is Ms. Fernandez alright?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, she’s not on the junk or anything. Needed an extra blanket, is all.” He scanned her checking her for scrapes or bruises. “You need anything like that? There’s some extras in Gene’s old spot.”  
  
“I’m good. Still got last winter’s in a box.”  
  
He nodded. “Soup night Tuesday, rent’s up next week. Talk to me or Alexis if you’re gonna be short.”  
  
The usual. She passed him by. “Will do. Night.”  
  
“Night.”  
  
Her locker was at the far end, a good number down from the nearest other occupant. She took a key from her pocket, popped the padlock off and lifted the door.  
  
A threadbare rug on the cold concrete floor. Plastic grocery bags atop a battered cardboard box. A bar stool with a busted leg. Sickly light from a bulb that buzzed and flickered intermittently. Her own ten-by-ten slice of Brockton Bay.  
  
She set her case down next to the stool and grabbed a stale protein bar from one of the bags, scarfing it down. The wrapper went into a different bag and a number of crumpled bills came out of a third. She sat on the stool, her own leg propping her up where the thing tilted, then added the day’s earnings to her stash and counted it up.  
  
Even with the twenty, she was nearly a hundred bucks short.  
  
She could theoretically scrounge up the rest by next week. She’d just have to forego non-bar food and busk a couple hours longer. Rusty and Alexis would help if she asked, but should worse come to worst she'd play Rock Bottom before she burdened them.  
  
Her aching feet twinged and she relented, stowing the cash and draping her coat over the stool. The door had a second latch on the inside for her to padlock shut and she gave it a couple tugs to make sure it was secure. The light died out when she tugged on the cord switch and the box served as a nightstand to leave her glasses on. She kicked off her sneakers, tucked into her puke-green sleeping bag and let the tension in her body slowly unwind.  
  
Melodies she hadn’t heard in years drifted through her fading thoughts and lulled her to sleep. Curled into a ball, clutching her pillow close, she dreamt of the cold, churning ocean and the yawning midnight sky.


	2. II. Half Diminished

"Fuck."  
  
Taylor tried the run again. Descending sixteenth notes, two low half notes, ascending eighth notes, a whole note on the high E string with a bend. She pushed the string further across the fretboard but didn't quite get a whole step above the fretted note. She focused in on that note, playing it over and over until she managed to bend the hair-thin string hard enough. By the time she’d worked it into her muscle memory she’d just about dug a new crease into the calluses on her fingertips.  
  
She took a quick break to let her calluses recover. The stool wobbled when she leaned over to grab a protein bar from the bag. It was dry and brittle and tasted only of the anamnesis of chocolate, but checking the expiration date would only jinx things.  
  
Once she was sure her stomach wasn’t planning to revolt she tapped her foot to count off and took the song from the top. It was a melancholic thing at first, all sparse triads in the lower strings, slowly building in dissonance. Then came a subtle shift where each harsh chord was followed by a more rounded harmony, resolving the tensions one by one, building in intensity. The climax was heralded by the run. Sixteenths, halves, eighths, whole note and _bend_ -  
  
The string broke with an ugly twang, nearly knocking her off the stool in surprise. It dangled from the bridge like a limp blade of switchgrass.  
  
She huffed and set the guitar down, hoping she had a replacement on hand. The bag pile offered two or three extras for the lower strings, one each of the G and B strings, and zero high E’s.  
  
"Double fuck."  
  
She was struggling to save up as it was, but her music was her only income and she didn’t have near enough for rent yet. There was nothing for it; she’d have to buy some more. She shrugged on her coat, donned her beanie, and undid the lock.  
  
  


**|: / / / / :|**

  
  
The store was a ways east from the lockers, twice again as far past her main busking spots. At that distance it was worth it to bring her guitar along so she could head straight back to the corners afterward. Eventually the train tracks veered toward Lord’s Port and she had to walk the rest of the way on pavement.   
  
Her destination sat at the edge of the latest Docks renovation initiative. Before Kentucky Ave became Cyprus Ave, bare brick was marked with overlapping tags of varying quality. After the turn, pale paint made each building uniform and innocuous. McAlister’s Music was on the Kentucky side of things, but if another initiative got passed it wouldn’t be on either side for long. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, though. She really didn’t want to bus halfway across town to buy from Amped Up.  
  
The bell above the door rang as she entered. The interior was cluttered with music paraphernalia, lined with cramped aisles of shelving. Guitars and horns hung from the walls and exposed ventilation ducts snaked around the overhead lights.  
  
The man behind the counter looked up from the snare he was tuning. He was round-faced and weathered, with thin grey hair combed back close to the skull. McAlister himself, probably, though she’d never asked. He nodded as he recognized her, then got back to work, checking his tuning job, tapping different points on the head. One, two, three, four. Tap, tap, tap, tap.  
  
Taylor beelined for the back, where the larger amps were stacked. Marshall, Fender, Orange, 30 watt, 40 watt, 50 - all too hefty to lug more than a block or two. A woman with tired eyes wearing discount business casual had plugged a player strat into one and was strumming out some vaguely recognizable Dinosaur Jr. track with the volume low and the distortion high.  
  
Taylor stopped before the string shelf, scanning the selection for her usual brand. She frowned. They had her brand in stock but not her gauge. She peeked at McAlister, wondering if it would be worth it to ask if he had any in storage.  
  
The bell over the door rang. A boy near her age sauntered in, hands half-buried in the pockets of his raw denim jeans, checking the place out with an air of aggressive ease. He spotted the counter and sidled up, resting an arm on its surface and pushing his long, dark hair back. When he spoke he smiled and when he smiled his thin moustache went crooked.  
  
"Afternoon, sir. I'm in the market for a new condenser mic.”  
  
The woman with the strat switched songs, fingerpicking the intro to a Night Trawlers hit. Quietly, she sang. “ _Floodlights on the yard, sneaking out the back door.”_  
  
McAlister looked up, then down again, twisting the tuning key. "Be right with you." Tap, tap, tap, tap.  
  
Suddenly Taylor wanted to be anywhere but there. She grabbed a different brand with the right gauge and strode toward the front. She took up place in line behind the boy.  
  
McAlister twisted the key.  
  
Because of the store’s acoustics, the woman was still audible in her periphery. “ _Cold nights in your car, shivers hard to ignore.”_  
  
The boy whistled idly for a bit, then rolled his neck. His sharp gaze landed on her and he smirked. “He always like this?”  
  
She nodded, avoiding eye contact.  
  
“ _Mourn the falling stars, trace the ones that still soar.”_  
  
He gestured to her case. “Acoustic, right? You a singer-songwriter type or…?”  
  
She shook her head. Her free hand dug into her coat pocket.  
  
Tap, tap, tap, tap.  
  
“ _Wherever we are, can’t go back anymore.”_  
  
He pursed his lips, squinting at her. "You know, if you grew your hair out-"  
  
Taylor slapped a ten onto the counter hard enough to startle everyone else into silence.  
  
“Keep the change.”  
  
She turned and powerwalked out the door before anyone could react. The bell rang.  
  
The walk down Kentucky was spent gritting her teeth and kicking herself for getting worked up. The change wouldn’t have been much, but every dollar counted and she couldn’t afford to make impulsive decisions like that.   
  
A sleek silver BMW ignored her right of way at the crosswalk, turning to take Kentucky east toward Cyprus. She made sure there wasn’t another one coming and crossed, securing her case’s strap in her fist. When she’d put a good couple blocks between herself and the pale painted buildings she took a bar from her other coat pocket, chewing while she walked.  
  
She wouldn’t lose any more time.  
  
  


**|: / / / / :|**

  
  
  
Breaking in new strings while practicing was annoying but easy enough. Breaking in new strings while performing sucked.  
  
A fresh string was like an optimist, bright in tone but rarely in tune with the ones around them. Only once they’d been stretched and stressed enough would they settle into subdued consistency. As it was, she spent many songs bending her high E to compensate when it went flat and on a couple longer pieces she had to finger a fret up on the fly.  
  
She was retuning between songs when the blonde took a seat on the bus stop bench.  
  
Taylor had sat cross-legged to better focus on playing, so the girl was above her resting eye level. She was fine with the social disconnect - most people got uncomfortable when she looked right at them and she was happy to avoid the awkwardness - but her bar-laden stomach tempted her to peek at what the girl was eating.  
  
She quelled the urge and started on a Nu Paragon cover. Recognizability was more likely to loosen pockets. The song itself was straightforward but she'd had it in her busking repertoire long enough that an altered chord here and a fret slide there came naturally. After the climax it dropped down to gentle finger picking and slowed down, bit by bit, until it resolved on a lone high note, held until it faded out on its own.  
  
“Your top string’s flat.”  
  
Taylor looked up.  
  
If the boy at McAlister’s wore his ease like sunglasses, this girl wore hers as contacts. She sat with her slim legs crossed and her palms planted behind her, propping up her torso. A loose lavender sweater hung down to her thighs and black skinnies ended in matching chelsea boots. Perfect bottle blonde strands framed a narrow face with high cheekbones, plucked brows, and a splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Daylight danced in bottle-green eyes and amusement played on the corners of her lightly pursed lips.  
  
“It’s new,” Taylor mumbled, looking away. The string’s pitch warped back up to E as she plucked and turned the tuning peg. “Old one broke.”  
  
She got through another cover before the girl spoke again.  
  
“Do you break a lot of strings?”  
  
Taylor shrugged. “I practice a lot.”  
  
“I can tell. You in a band?”  
  
“Just me.”  
  
The girl hummed.  
  
Partway through her next song, a bus the size of a small yacht rumbled through the intersection without stopping, eastbound. The thrum of the engine and the rush of vented air drowned her out until it passed. She managed not to lose her tempo and saw the rest of the track through.  
  
“I’d be surprised if all your performances were on street corners.”  
  
“I play the bar on 29th and R, sometimes.” She stifled a sigh. “I’ll be there Friday night.”  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
Taylor looked up again, not quite meeting her gaze. “Rose.”  
  
She grinned. “Pretty name.”  
  
Taylor bit the inside of her cheek.  
  
The girl donned her mini backpack and stood, dropping a crisp bill into Taylor’s case. Her lithe frame turned away but her bright eyes lingered, casting a glance over her shoulder.  
  
“See you then, Rose.”  
  
Her boots clicked and clacked as she walked away. The breeze followed her westward, ruddy leaves stumbling to keep up. Taylor watched her until she slipped out of view, then shook her head.  
  
She tried to tune her high E to her B string, then realized it was also flat, simply from being played. She tuned from the bottom again, from E to E.  
  
The prospect of Friday’s show wasn’t especially appealing but she didn’t have many options. Even with another twenty in her case she couldn’t guarantee rent otherwise.  
  
Again she started a song, knowing her chords would slowly sour and she’d have to compensate. Annoying as it was, there was nothing else she could do.  
  
Alone on the corner, she played.


	3. III. Minor Blues

Come twilight Friday, the beach was empty and the Boardwalk was a ghost town.

It hadn't shut down completely, of course. Lampposts still lit the main walkway, enforcers stood watch by the north-end clothing stores, and the restaurants in the middle stayed open to serve a handful of patrons. In comparison to its usual nightlife, however, it may as well have been deserted. Of its typical flooding of gentry, few walked the planks and fewer still roamed the sand, and the carnival games and snack stands that characterized its south end had gone dark.

Taylor skulked between a shuttered skee ball booth and a cotton candy cart, steps light, head down, eyes peeled. No one stopped her when she headed down an unlit pier. No one called out when she hurried to a row of shower stalls. Upon opening a stall, no one jumped out, slapped a cuff onto her wrist and yelled, “Gotcha!”

She shut the door, latched it, tested the latch, and allowed herself a moment to get her heartbeat under control. She doffed her parka first, hanging it on the hook on the door. Two plastic grocery bags followed, one full, the other empty. Her sneakers, she tied together by the laces and hung over everything else. Her glasses, she tucked into her beanie and shoved into a coat pocket. Lastly, she peeled off her less-than-clean clothes and stuffed them into the empty bag.

Guided by memory alone, she wandered under the shower nozzle and groped for its handle. The first frigid gush made her inhale sharply through gritted teeth, but the amenities here were much better than those of the community center locker room, and within seconds the water was warm as a loving hug.

She scrubbed herself down as well as she could with just her hands. When her palms began to prune, she started on her face, letting the rougher texture scour away dead skin. Her hair took the most effort, first in untangling all the knots, then in preening the grease out from scalp to tip.

When she was done she simply stood in the spray, luxuriating. In the darkened stall, unburdened by grime, she could almost forget the rest of the world, pretend that this was all there was to life. Hot water flowing down her front, the gentle tickle of steam in her nose. For one long moment the patter of drops against the planks and the lazy crash of waves further down the pier were all the music she needed.

A distant, steady thumping cut her short. She grimaced and shut the water off, wringing the wet from her curls. Her hands wiped surface moisture from her skin and paper towels, liberated from a public bathroom’s dispenser earlier that day, got her close to dry. Cleaner clothes from the first plastic bag replaced the old ones and she hurried into her sneakers, beanie, glasses and coat.

The sound was more tangible outside the stall. More present, if not much louder. The difference was subtle, in the way the sound echoed along the whole Boardwalk and beyond, surrounded her on all sides. It was almost as hard to ignore as its source.

Arthur Records’ most venerated concert venue dominated the center of the bay. It was truly the consummate spectacle: Drums and synths amplified loud enough to drown out the ocean. Technicolor spotlights blinking and waving and blotting out the stars. Pricing so exclusive it drew the well-to-do away from their enclaves once a month. A great, gleaming cruise ship so iconic it had come to represent Brockton itself.

The P. Arty Boat.

Whatever band or group they had opening this time, they’d just gotten started. Sonic layers gradually piled atop each other in sequence until the whole thing became bloated and muddied. With the added distortion of a few kilometers’ distance, the noise was all but incomprehensible.

As tempted as she was to stand there and sneer until her contempt shamed it into disappearing, there was work to be done. She slipped back into the shadows, past the dormant games and their caged prizes, bound for the backstreets that would return her to the tracks. Lockers first, to grab her guitar, then straight to Rock Bottom.

She had her own show to play.

**|: / / / / :|**

To a seasoned Brocktonite, the phrase “the wrong side of the tracks” would instantly mark the speaker as an out-of-towner. The only things north of the tracks in Brockton Bay were more tracks; if a person or place was on the wrong side, then the whole city was too.

Instead, people asked what side of R street something was on. It was the tightrope between the last dregs of downtown urbanity and utter post-industrial ruin, between low-end apartment complexes and stripped-bare factory husks. If one was east of R street, they were getting by. If one was west of R street, they were lucky to have a roof over their head.

R street itself was one long line of liquor stores, smoke shops, pawn shops and dive bars. Empty bottles and cigarette butts garnished homeless-unfriendly benches. Signposts stood smothered in stickers, advertising strip clubs, conspiracy theory websites and local evangelicals. The only color to be found was in the radioactive glow of neon signs, at once too glaring and too murky.

Her destination was a pub painted the grey-white of corpse skin. Precautions protected it from the outside world, in the faded green curtains drawn closed and the iron bars weeping rust down the windowsills. The sign over the door read ‘Somer’s Rock’.

A cluster of crust punk/folk punk hybrids were slumped against its wall, passing a joint around. It was hard to tell which they had more of - fraying patches on their vests and jeans or crude stick-n-pokes on their bodies.

The only one standing gave her a nod. “‘Sup, Rose.”

She nodded back. “You guys done already?”

Ash held their next pull and handed the joint off. They shook their head, flicking tiger-orange strands out of their face. “Just got here,” they said, smoke drifting out with the words. “You mind if we go first?”

“Sure.”

A white girl with matted red pseudodreads took a drag and passed it back. “Should we, like, offer to let her, at least?”

“Trust me, we don’t wanna go after her. Even if you guys weren’t new she’d blow us out of the water.” They took one last pull, put out what was left on the heel of their combat boot and tucked it behind their ear. "C'mon, let's kick this shit off."

With a few grunts and groans, they picked themselves up, along with their instruments. They followed Ash through the door and Taylor followed them in turn.

Somer’s was a pub first and a venue incidentally. The wood floor and counter were stained grey as tombstones, the tablecloths matched the curtains, and hanging lamps with wilted shades poured sallow light onto its patrons.

Taylor got a glance from one of the twin bartenders and a stool at the far end of the bar. It was the same kind of stool as the one in her locker, only the ones here were more or less intact. She set her case down so it leaned against the bar, kept one hand on it for safety and security, and shifted to watch Ash’s group set up.

The ‘stage’ was simply a corner with no tables or booths and just barely enough room for the four of them. Ash pulled out an acoustic guitar with scratches and sharpie scribbles all over its body. Red dreads started tuning a trumpet with a dent in its bell. Another sat down with a plastic bucket and some drumsticks, and the last took a harmonica from his pocket.

She wondered what name they were going by this time. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Ash reused an old name like ‘Derelict Gloryhole’ or ‘Jester Bobo and the Clown Cars’, but they were just as likely to whip out something new.

When everyone was mostly in tune, Ash spoke over the dull chatter. “Happy Friday, you miserable fucks. We are Rotgut Pissgargler’s Union. One two three four, one two three four!”

They finger-strummed open chords in a straightforward major-major-minor-major progression. The drummer stomped on the ones and threes and hit the bucket with both sticks on the twos and fours. The trumpet and harmonica traded off licks until Ash cut them off with the first verse.

One of the bartenders served her a glass of ice water. She nursed it while she listened.

They weren’t really her thing, but they weren’t bad. What they lacked in refinement they made up for with energy, and Ash’s shout-singing drove things along whenever the others faltered.

Partway through their performance a basket got passed around the tables, into which some patrons tossed crumpled ones and fives. When it reached her she took a silver dollar from her coat, dropped it in, and passed it down the bar.

Her glass was half-empty by the time the band wrapped up their closer.

“ _They can feast on figs and dates_

_Hide behind their gilded gates_

_But I swear we’ll fucking eat them, in the end._ ”

A few people clapped as the last chord rang out, Taylor included. The group didn’t linger, packing up their things and wandering over to an empty table. Ash detoured over to the bar, where the other twin placed the basket and a tray of beers.

They thanked him, handed him a few bills from the basket and started stacking the rest without counting them. “Was only their third or fourth time playing in front of people. Not too shabby for newbies, huh?”

She grunted in the affirmative and drained the last of her water.

“Anyways. Good luck and shit. Not that you need it.” The stack went into one vest pocket and the silver dollar went into another. They took the beers and went to join their friends.

She got up from the bar, picking up her case with one hand and her stool with the other. It took some maneuvering to get everything over to the performing area, but soon enough she was perched in the corner, checking her tuning.

She was adjusting the high E when the door opened.

To her surprise, the bottle blonde from the bus stop sauntered in, wearing blood-red lipstick and a black knee-length coat. Her hair was pulled into a long braid that draped over her shoulder. When she caught sight of Taylor she smiled, looking self-satisfied. She found her own stool and leaned back against the bartop, giving Taylor her full attention.

Fortunately, few others watched her so intently. The lack of a proper stage was a boon in that sense; the focus was on her music, not her.

To that end, she declined to give any introduction. She just fingered the first chord and strummed.

**|: / / / / :|**

When she was done there was a basket of bills waiting for her at the bar. Two plates sat beside it, one with a small salad, the other with a burger and fries. Her brow furrowed.

“Thought you might like some grub,” said the blonde girl. She tipped her head toward the back of the pub. “Want to come eat with me?”

That warranted a moment’s consideration. She was pretty hungry, the burger looked like mush but smelled like heaven, and the bartenders probably wouldn’t let one of their few live acts get poisoned.

Taylor nodded.

The girl smiled.

Taylor followed her to a secluded booth, carrying both burger and basket, guitar case on her back. By the time she’d set everything down and sat her case on the far end of the bench, the girl was already starting in on her salad.

The basket came first, before any food. She counted enough bills to know she’d be able to pay rent, then tucked them all into her coat. The silver dollar at the bottom, she slipped into a separate pocket.

The girl regarded her between bites, fiddling idly with her fork. “Gotta say, that was a helluva show. I’m definitely glad I came.”

“I thought you were my age,” she blurted, avoiding direct eye contact. “They only let me in here to perform.”

“I’m still a teenager. I just make it a habit to keep a fake ID on me. It pays to, in more ways than one.” She gestured to the burger with her fork. “Go ahead and try it. I’m curious to know if it’s any better than this.”

Taylor frowned, looking it over. She struggled to formulate a plan of attack, hands hesitating to actually touch it. Once she’d managed to grip it without compromising its tenuous structural integrity, she brought it to her mouth.

For all that the patty was falling apart, and though the tomatoes and pickles had soaked the bun soggy, it tasted incredible. The flavor memory of protein bar after stale protein bar got buried beneath pepper jack and hot, fatty beef. 

She nodded enthusiastically. “Good.” A second bite confirmed that the first had not been a fluke, as did the third and fourth.

The girl seemed pleased at that.

Taylor forced herself to pause and meet her gaze. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’ll cut to the chase, because I think you’ll appreciate that.” She pulled away, folding her arms, reclining into the back of the booth. Her lips pursed ever so slightly, made noticeable only by their bold red color. “I want you to join my band.”

Taylor looked away. “No.”

The purse became a pout. “Not even a moment to consider?”

She took another bite and shook her head.

“Do you mind telling me why, at least?” The girl held up her hands. “Not that I mean to pressure you. I just think you might have some misconceptions about what kind of band we are.”

In a herculean show of willpower, she lowered the burger from her mouth, speaking slow so she could choose her words carefully. “...Signing with a label isn’t an option for me. I can’t even get a public performance permit. This guitar is the only gear I have, and… I have trouble with performing for actual audiences, sometimes.”

“As in, people judging your playing, or…?”

“My face,” she managed. “I don’t like people seeing my face.”

A hum. “And if I told you none of that would be a problem?”

Tension crept into her shoulders. “I’d say you were lying.”

The girl’s green eyes narrowed and the corner of her lip curled upward. “Tell me, Rose, what do you know about the outlaw scene?”


	4. Augmented

“All I know is it’s a bunch of fucking bullshit.”

He tugged the bill free and gripped it with both hands, rubbing it side-to-side across the thigh of his ill-fitting khakis like the world’s smallest towel. It hardly looked any less wrinkled afterward but he fed it into the slot again anyways.

“Been in this neighborhood my whole life. I was popping change into these things before I could ride a bike. It’s the only thing I use my quarters for on the regular. And what do they do?”

The bill got regurgitated. His chapped lips pressed into a line and he punched the machine, earning a hollow thunk.

“Replace the slots with these, these broken-ass bill eaters! Like people don’t get change at corner stores or fast food spots anymore. It’s insane.”

He moved one machine over and fed the new one the same bill. Like a gambler at a poker table waiting for the flop, he stared down the slot, unblinking, breath held.

The indicator light blinked green.

“Oh, thank Christ.” He pressed the ‘warm’ button and the drum began to fill with water. The heat of frustration dispelled, he looked over and frowned. “Sorry. I shouldn’t get all worked up like that. It’s just, what the fuck are they thinking, you know?”

Taylor nodded, trying not to engage him. It was hard not to feel naked, sitting in a dinky plastic chair against the wall, deprived of her outer shell. She could feel the way the vents circulated air on the bare skin of her forearms, the nape of her neck. Her hair, now exposed to the ambient humidity, was getting frizzier by the minute. That this haggard twenty-something was the only other person in the laundromat gave her some small comfort, but she still hated feeling so exposed.

“They’re doing it with other stuff, too. I saw a vending machine the other day, no slot at all, coin or bill. Just a card swipe.”

She curled over her guitar case. Her fingers fiddled with the key to her locker, ready to pinch it between two fingers in a fist, a general precaution more than anticipation.

“Does small change not matter anymore or something?” He shook his head. “I just don’t get it.”

Her dryer beeped and went still, and she sprung from her seat. She pulled her parka and beanie out first, covering her plain tee and messy curls, then shoveled the rest into a large pillowcase, which she tied off at the end. Without a second glance towards the man, she opened the door with her shoulder and strode out. 

The state of the sky gave her brief pause. A quilt of patchwork grey, some light and thin as silk, some dark and sagging like cobweb. No great torrent ahead, but a brief drizzle wasn’t out of the question.

The case would be fine; it was waterproof. The clothes, she could line-dry at the lockers. Her parka had always kept her dry.

The key, she slipped into her pocket.

**|: / / / / :|**

If the blonde girl was trying to be inconspicuous, she was doing a pretty poor job of it. The heel of her chelsea boot clicked as she idly bounced her leg. Artful rips in her jeans exposed the smooth skin and wide-mesh fishnets beneath. Her hair was pinned up in a messy bun, drawing attention to the tattoo choker adorning her swan-like neck. Her leather jacket, though zipped closed, was such a rich shade of burgundy that Taylor was finding it hard to look away.

She grinned as Taylor approached the bus stop bench and held out one of two paper bags. When Taylor failed to react, she waggled it. “C’mon, don’t be shy. I can’t eat both of these by myself.”

Taylor set her case down, sat with the pillowcase in her lap and took the proffered food. It turned out to be a huge soft pretzel, sprinkled with sea salt and warm through the bag. “Why?”

She shrugged. “I was already getting one for myself, so I figured, why not?”

“Buying me food won’t convince me to join.”

“Good thing this isn’t a bribe, then.” She planted her free hand on the bench and leaned her weight onto it. “Call it a perk of hanging out with me.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Call it something else then. You’re taking time out of your day to do this for me, time you’d otherwise use to play and make some money, right? Let me compensate you for that with food.”

“Why not just offer cash?”

The girl looked at Taylor - really looked at her, like one might read and reread a standout line in a poem. “Something tells me you wouldn’t take it.”

Taylor looked back down at the pretzel. At this point, she figured, if the girl was going to poison her it would have happened already. She tore into it, taking an extra-large bite and chewing it slowly, ponderously. That let the salt dissolve on her tongue and made the warmth last longer.

The girl smiled and shifted to watch traffic trundle by, rather than watch her eat. 

Taylor appreciated that.

Trucks and sedans in varying degrees of disrepair stopped at the intersection, waiting while other cars took their turns. One of the older-style traffic lights was damaged, the whole thing bent askew where it was attached to the pole, dangling as though it could fall off at any moment.

It occured to Taylor that, on the off chance this band thing worked out, she might not have to play this corner for a while. She wondered what would happen first - the band falling apart or that light crushing some poor sap who just wanted to turn right.

The girl stopped nibbling her own pretzel for a moment. “You know, if you have any more questions-”

A drop of water fell onto the bridge of her nose and she flinched, nearly dropping her pretzel.

“Jesus.” She wiped her nose dry with the back of her hand, then stuck her tongue out at Taylor. “Yeah, yeah, yuk it up.”

Taylor tried to subdue her laughter, smothering it down to a snicker. “Sorry.”

The girl opened her mouth to say something but was preempted by the tip-tap of droplets hitting the pavement. “Oh, crap.” She picked up the backpack resting by her feet and nodded her head toward the nearest storefront. “C’mon, before this starts getting worse.”

Taylor wasn’t too worried but she followed her to the doorway anyhow. They huddled up beneath the overhang, each with their hands full. Taylor had to carry the pillowcase beneath one arm so she could hold the pretzel too.

“What’s up with that, anyway?”

Taylor watched the rain fall in little fits and starts. She imagined a sprinkler with a kink in the hose, sputtering far above the cars. “Hm?”

“The pillowcase.”

She looked at her pillowcase, wondering if it’d torn anywhere. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“What’s in there?”

“Oh. I did some laundry before I came here.”

“...You’re just walking around with your laundry?”

“It needed doing, so I did it.” She frowned. “It made sense to do it while I was already going out.”

“No, I-” The girl tried to bring her hands up, then seemed to remember they were busy. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. Forget I said anything.”

They stood in silence. The rain built to a more consistent spray, forcing drivers to turn on their wipers. Ants scrambled into cracks in the sidewalk, taking cover amidst the bombardment. Dead leaves wilted where struck. The street signs seemed to rust at the edges in real time.

When the bus pulled up, its front wheel came to a stop right in a little puddle, wetting the rubber. An ad for an injury lawyer dominated the side panel. The lawyer in question was posed like a boxer and grimacing like he was constipated. An LED display scrolled out ‘78 - Jeane Anthony Drive to Sanssouci Place’.

“This is the one,” said the girl, half-jogging to the door when it opened. She boarded first, balancing her pretzel and bag in one arm so she could dig out a pair of bills with the other. “For both of us.” She looked back to Taylor. “This and the food, okay? You’re the one doing me a favor, here.”

Taylor wanted to protest but couldn’t. “Fine.”

She led Taylor to the far back, well away from the few other passengers. She stopped before sitting down. “You want window or aisle?”

“...Window.”

They shuffled around each other, navigating the complex slide puzzle of their bulky accoutrements in the narrow aisle. Taylor managed to settle in with her case stood between her shins, her laundry in her lap and the pretzel atop the laundry just as the bus lurched into motion.

Brockton Bay was a different city in the rain. The changes were subtle but pervasive, in the way the wet stained the bricks and sidewalks dark, in the colored traffic lights reflected in every puddle. There was no great fundamental shift; rather, what was there simply became more of what it already was.

“What if I have more questions?”

The girl quirked a brow. “What?”

“You were going to say something, before the rain started.”

“Oh, right. If there’s still stuff you want to know, I’ll answer what I can.”

Taylor thought about it. “Why the name?”

“The way I heard it, it comes from outlaw country. You know, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson-”

“Tanya Tucker, Townes...”

“Yeah. Obviously we’re not playing folk ballads or honky-tonk in New England, but the principle’s the same. Big money labels come in to sanitize and commodify a scene, and the artists that refuse to join the fold start their own community.” She gestured with her pretzel. “We’ve just taken the name a bit more literally.”

“Did your band ever consider signing to Arthur?”

“Not a chance. Even without the whole ‘selling your soul’ thing, we’re... Well, we each have our own reasons.” She took a rabbit’s bite of pretzel. “As far as mine goes, I’m in a pretty similar boat to yours. Couldn’t sign if i wanted to, and I’ve got a vested interest in keeping my life as a musician and my day-to-day life separate.”

Taylor didn’t bother to correct her on the particulars. She looked to the window, watching raindrops collect on the glass. Some stayed where they were, buoyed by surface tension. Others drooled into each other, conglomerating until they became heavy enough to trickle down past the pane.

“Anything else?”

She was about to shake her head but paused, then turned to face the girl instead.

More pale strands had escaped the bun, tickling her cheekbones and framing her face in a new way. Somehow that made it seem as though her freckles had multiplied, spread like a flush across her cheeks.

“What’s your name?”

Her thin brows jumped. “I never told you, did I? Sorry. Force of habit.” She held out a hand. “Lisa.”

Taylor hesitated, then, slowly, haltingly, took her hand.

They shook.

Taylor knew she’d lingered too long when Lisa’s smile tilted. “You should finish that pretzel before it gets cold.”

“I- you too.” She let go of Lisa’s hand and picked up the bag, shifting so she could only see the street going by, keeping her stupid mouth busy with food.

**|: / / / / :|**

Their destination was far enough south that by the time they got off the bus, the drizzle had let up and the clouds were a lighter grey. It was hard to say if they’d managed to wait it out or if they’d simply outrun it, but Lisa seemed pretty happy regardless.

“Almost there,” she said, leading Taylor past lawn after half-dead lawn.

The houses in this neighborhood were strange. Uniform gable roofs, placid pastels and earth tones, vinyl siding imitating wooden shingles. Short walkways led up to wide porches, long driveways sat flush with one side, and there wasn’t a single garage to speak of.

“Kinda neat, right? It’s the first post-war suburb they built in Brockton.” Lisa gestured to a stretch of grass and dirt peppered with weeds, where the border between one house’s lawn and another’s was lost in the homogeneity. “The picket fence dream before the picket fence.”

Taylor ran a tally of each person under forty she saw in the area. Two had been children on a porch, fiddling with their phones, looking bored out of their skulls, and one had been Lisa. “I don’t know that I’d call it 'neat'.”

“It’s living history, at least. Bland and manufactured history, but still.”

Older homes by the docks with much more character came to mind, but she didn’t feel like getting into it. “When you invited me along, I pictured something…”

Lisa craned her neck and smirked. “What, more spooky? Decrepit Victorian manor, dusty abandoned factory, that sort of thing?”

“...different.”

“I promise it’s at least a little creepy.” She turned onto one final street, a narrow cul-de-sac that ambled away from the larger cluster. Here the lawns were more often dead than not, thinner and thinner the further in they got. Lisa stopped before the house on the very end.

It faced the street, such that the driveway seemed a continuation of it, funneling down to a one-car breadth. Exposed soil showed through the sparse grass and the faded buttercream siding was peppered with pockmarks. Mouldering curtains and a checkered tablecloth could be seen through the window. A pair of rocking chairs and a fallen wind chime stood guard on the porch.

Lisa gave her an expectant look.

“I’ve seen worse.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s a critic.”

They headed down the driveway, skirting an old stone-grey van with no windows beyond the front seats. “Does someone live here?”

“There’s no one on this street at all, actually. It’s furthest from any shops or offices, so it was the first row to sell to speculators when the chance came. Means no neighbors to complain about the noise or snoop on the weird teenagers.”

The backyard was much like the front yard save for a big metal bulkhead, from which came some muffled and indistinct sounds, and a simple swing set, past which sparse trees marked the first steps into Brockton's foothills.

Taylor’s eyes lingered on the static swings. Most of the chains had rusted to the point of breaking, leaving two of the three limp on the ground. The last was only half-suspended, one end dangling on its chain and the other inches from the dirt. “This place seems more ditched than sold.”

“Owners died, kids live out of state and didn’t empty it before selling.” She took a key from her jacket and knelt before the bulkhead, removing the padlock on its handles. “At least, that’s what I figure.”

With a grunt and a heave, the doors swung open, revealing a dimly lit wooden staircase and releasing the sounds from within. Sequential chords strummed in precise time, sonorous arpeggios in a lazy legato fashion, sharp paradiddles ramping in tempo, all out of sync with one another.

Warm-ups.

Lisa descended, disappearing into the dark. When she spoke, her voice echoed slightly. “Hey! Brought a guest!” When she reemerged, Taylor was still standing on the threshold. “What’s up?”

Taylor opened her mouth, then shut it.

Lisa regarded her for a second. “Oh, right.” She shifted her backpack around and unzipped one of the outer pockets. She held up a small bundle of black cloth. “This’ll do for now.”

That hadn’t been why she’d stalled but she wouldn’t pass up a free excuse. She wedged the pillowcase beneath her case arm and took the bundle. It took her a moment to unfurl it with one hand. She looked it over, then looked back to Lisa.

She nodded, understanding somehow, and turned away.

Taylor turned too, facing the swings. Rather than let her case get dirty, she stuffed the cloth halfway into her pocket and pulled her beanie and glasses off with one hand.

It was a ski mask with one wide opening for the eyes and no hole for the mouth. She had to tug it over her head one side at a time, gaining an inch or two of ground on the left, then matching the shift on the right. It took her nearly as long to get the opening in place so it wouldn’t block her vision, and even then part of her felt it was somehow askew. Her glasses went on over it all, the temple tips resting awkwardly where her ears bulged the fabric.

“Ready.”

Lisa looked back and snickered. “Sorry. Didn’t take the glasses into account. If this works out we’ll get you something better, promise.”

The stairwell was a cramped and claustrophobic thing. The steps creaked and groaned like doors in old cartoons, the walls forced her to shimmy sideways with her cargo, and the ceiling had her ducking her head for fear of bumping it.

Lisa stopped just past the landing, gave a shallow bow and gestured with a flourish of her fingers. “Velcome,” she said, affecting an accent, “to the lair… of the Undersiders!”

Exposed-beam rafters, cinderblock walls, and a cracked stone floor. Four load-bearing poles in a square divided the space and a single hanging bulb lit it from the middle, such that the dark traced a line from each pole into the gloom at the edges. A few rows of metal shelves occupied the left wall. A table covered with a tarp and a large white sofa sat on the right. Three shadowed figures loomed at the far end.

Taylor stepped into the space. Her eyes, still adjusting to the darkness, could only make out the details closest to the bulb.

The one on the left wore a tawny brown wolf mask with its mouth open in a snarl. “Pretty skinny,” she grunted.

The one on the right wore a Venetian full-face mask, intricate and golden. “Not sure ‘Invisible Man’ really fits our theme,” he muttered.

The one in the middle wore a white half-mask in the shape of a skull. He addressed them directly, his voice deep and resonant. “Who’s this?”

“This,” Lisa spoke from behind her, “is Rose, and she’s about to be our new lead guitar.”

“Got enough guitar already.”

“That posture doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

The skull shushed the other two, then set his empty sockets on her. “What kind of music do you play?”

The ski mask muffled her voice. “Anything.”

He paused. “Anything,” he echoed.

“Yeah.”

“Alright then.” One long hand rose to indicate her case. “Play something.”

Slowly, she set her laundry and case on the cold grey stone. For a moment the sound of her unzipping the case was the only noise in the space. She slipped the strap over her head, clipped a capo to the headstock and retrieved a pick from a pocket, then stood.

The Venetian hummed. “Looks pricey.”

The canid snorted. “Acoustic?”

Taylor ignored them, checking her tuning. “Requests?”

The skull shook his head. “Anything.”

She thought for a moment, hands muting the strings, filtering out the silence. Songs came to mind, hits and b-sides and études and standards, but none felt quite right. Instead, one hand shifted over the frets, fingering different chords, and the other twitched just above the strings, ghosting through strumming rhythms. She almost settled on a minor drop progression, gradually descending, pensive and tense, but decided it needed a twist.

She tapped out a one, two, three, four.

The first chord, strummed once on the lower strings and muted immediately. Tap, tap, tap.

The second, root lowered one step, played just as loud. Tap, tap, tap.

The third, another step down, compliant with the standard progression. Tap, tap, tap.

For the fourth, she raised one note by a half step, transforming a major chord into something more dissonant, denying the comfort of resolution. Tap, tap, tap.

In her peripheral, the figures shifted.

Back to the top of the progression, only now she filled the empty space with eighth notes, the bare bones of a melody on the higher strings. Hammer-ons and pull-offs slurred pairs of notes together, complicating the rhythm. She tweaked it with each pass through the chords, adding a lick on each fourth beat that tumbled downward into the next chord. Once she’d settled on that framework, she chanced a glance at the figures.

The one on the left moved, catching Taylor’s eye. She was sat before a minimally-equipped drum kit, barely more than a bass drum with a snare attached. Thick hands picked up a pair of duct-taped drum sticks and hovered over the kit, waiting.

This time, the first chord was heralded by a rapid series of kicks, accompanied by a loud crash, and followed by a tight, driving beat. She emphasized the twos and fours with frenetic sixteenth notes on the snare and matched Taylor’s rhythms with the thumping bass.

In turn, Taylor hit those accented notes harder, refining the licks, playing with the dynamics. Once they’d settled into sync, she tried putting the chords on the upbeat of one, the slight delay adding another element of suspense.

The canid matched her, putting a kick on the downbeat of one and hitting the crash cymbal on the upbeat.

The figure on the right moved, turning a knob on the body of his electric bass, fingers hovering over the pickups.

On the downbeat of one, he plucked the root note of the first chord. He rounded out the low end, accentuating the beats that Taylor didn’t. Where her licks descended, his fills ascended, and vice versa.

She threw in a few sixteenth-note lines, wondering if the speed would cause him to stumble.

The Venetian mimicked them smoothly, fulfilling the call-and-response with flair.

The figure in the center flipped a switch on the body of his guitar and adjusted his own knobs. He licked his lips and mirrored the chords as she played them, only he fingered them an octave higher on the fretboard.

He broke out into a loud, rumbling roar, singing long notes over the fervent rhythms. He strummed with the snare hits, tone distorted by the amp, muting in-between. His wordless tones became lyrics, incomprehensible amidst the cacophony but adding character to his notes.

Once they’d well and truly exhausted the framework, she nodded.

The canid, Venetian, and skull each nodded back.

They ran through it from the top one last time. The singing became screaming, the crashes built into a frenzy, and the motifs devolved into frenetic shredding. In a deafening cacophony, the chord progression finally, cathartically, resolved.

Even after every string was still, the energy lingered. It was all around them, in the lingering reverberations and the unseen current between them. They rode out the moment as long as they could.

Lisa stepped forward, grinning. “So?”

The skull glanced at the others, getting affirmatives from each. “You’re in.” He pointed to the drummer and bassist, then to himself. “When we play, she’s Wolf, he’s Duke, I’m Grim. And you’ve already met Vamp.”

Taylor looked to Lisa. “Vamp?”

In one quick, fluid motion, she popped something into her mouth and brought her arm up like she was hiding behind a cloak. After a moment, she lowered it again to hiss with her lips peeled back, revealing a set of fake plastic fangs.

“Oh.”

“We practice tuesday nights and all day sunday,” Grim continued. “We also hang out on saturdays when we don’t have a show, if you want to join.”

Duke rolled his eyes. “Most of us do.”

Wolf shot him a look. “Some of us have more shit to do than others.”

Lisa popped her fangs out. “Sound good?”

Taylor’s hands had never left her guitar. There was something wrong with her; the current had awoken some terrible sickness that made her chest light and her senses sharper. The stone floor was twice as solid beneath her feet. Lisa’s eyes were twice as green. Her pulse was pounding in her ears. The world was more now than it had been minutes ago and she craved more still.

“Yeah,” she said through her mask. “Sounds good.”


	5. Major Triad

When Grim wasn’t Grim, he was Brian, and Brian worked at a sports supply store in the commercial district.

Here, he was every bit the image of a young professional. Black oxfords and a matching belt, slim charcoal jeans, a crisp white button-up, a plain black tie. His hair was up in tidy cornrows. A silver watch adorned his wrist and a pair of square glasses framed his stern gaze. He held himself like a GQ model, walked around like a floor trader, and spent his days peddling hand weights and punching bags.

“Nine Inch Nails is up there. Deathchester’s earlier albums, if you remember them.” 

Taylor struggled to keep up. She’d forgotten what it was like to be around someone taller than her, to look up at them and fall short of their stride. It was like being fourteen all over again. “Before the singer’s sister took over, right?”

The store was oppressively vast, one big open area bordered by rows of shelves against the walls. Its lofty warehouse-style ceiling and lack of partitions gave it a larger than life feel, like one could be the tallest man on earth and still fail to fit it.

He nodded, eyes straight ahead. “Everything after that just got… derivative.” He cut through a minefield of elliptical bikes as though they weren’t there. His familiarity with the terrain gave him yet another advantage, forcing her to trail in his wake. “Devin Townsend too. When I get my next holiday bonus I’m picking up Ocean Machine on vinyl.” 

The back exit led to an extension of the larger parking lot. It was a narrow stretch of pavement with a single row of spaces that ran the length of the strip mall’s rear. Each space was marked with a store’s name in blocky lettering, done with spray paint and stencils. The buildings muted the noise from the interstate, and only a few loud engines and fevered honks could be heard over the rustle of grass in the adjacent empty lot.

Brian made a beeline for the spaces marked ‘PLAY HARD’ and pulled a keyring from his pocket. When he used the clicker, a white sedan’s lights blinked. It was at least a decade or two old, judging by its design, but it looked good as new. Better, even; Taylor doubted it had come off the factory line with the sleek sheen it wore now. When he opened the driver’s side door to grab a water bottle from the cupholder, she noticed an air freshener hanging from the rear-view. If he’d been a salaried worker, she’d have assumed it was a company car.

He set the bottle on the roof and got into one of the back doors, fiddling with a hard case laid across the back seats. He picked up the guitar inside with one hand and passed it to her, pointing out its components. It was a deep candy apple red with a black pickguard, almost as well-kept as his car.

"This knob for master volume, this one for the neck pickup, and this one for the middle pickup. The bridge has a humbucker, so if you want a harsher tone-"

"I know my way around an electric," she mumbled, inspecting the headstock. She had to stand awkwardly to hold it without a strap, one hand holding up the body from the bottom and the other gripping the neck.

"Okay. I don’t use pedals, so that’s about it. Talk to Lisa about getting an amp and cable, and you’re set.”

She eyed him. “And you’re just… letting me use it. Just like that.”

He didn’t waver. “Mmhm.”

“Someone you didn’t know a week ago.”

“I’m considering this an investment. You’re good, but you can’t play our shows on an acoustic. Too quiet and fragile. You need gear, and I haven’t gotten around to selling this one since I upgraded to my Schecter. You disappear with it, I lose an old guitar I wasn’t using anyway and you lose your share of what the band makes.” He took a sip of his water. “Your opportunity cost is more than you'd make selling that, so I don't think it's much of a risk.”

“I guess. Still seems like too much.”

“Honestly, with how you play, I’m surprised you don’t have a regular strat or something already. If you want something nicer than that Squier...”

She shook her head, giving the strings a slow strum with the hand holding the neck. “Regi Wooten plays a Squier. This is fine.”

Satisfied, he took it back, returned it to its case, and handed her the whole thing. “All yours, for as long as you’re with us.” He checked his watch. “I should head back in, but-”

Taylor followed his gaze. Another sedan had pulled round the corner, approaching the PLAY HARD spaces. It had the silhouette of a newer model but the wear of a well-used car. Faint tracks ran down its body, like rain had collected bits of grot and dried before it could drip to the ground. Scratches on the bottom and corners of the front bumper stood out against the black paint. A poppy imitation of hip-hop leaked from the half-open windows until the driver parked and shut the engine off.

He was somewhere between Taylor’s age and Brian’s; if he couldn’t buy his own smokes yet, he’d be able to soon. His brown hair seemed to be cut to suit a side part but it looked like he’d run his fingers through rather than actually comb it. The navy blue of his loose company polo contrasted with his skin, making him look twice as pale as he already was. A name badge clipped onto the pocket read ‘Aaron’.

He approached, holding out a fist. “‘Sup, Bri-Bri? You playing hooky?”

Brian frowned, failing to reciprocate the gesture. “I asked to take my break early. Didn’t your shift start twenty minutes ago?”

What would have been a fist bump became a knock on Brian’s shoulder as he passed them by. “If Ronnie has a problem, he’ll say something, but the way corporate’s been on his ass he’s got enough to worry about.”

Brian folded his arms. “If there’d been a rush we wouldn’t have had the staff to deal with it.”

Aaron spread his. “Yeah, well, when you’re assistant manager, you can do something about it. ‘Til then?” He shrugged and pulled the door open, sauntering inside.

Posture rigid, jaw clenched, Brian spent a moment just staring through the door. Then, with a slow breath, he let his arms drop to pull his own name badge from his pocket. “As I was saying, I need to get back to work. Are you good to get home on your own?”

“Yeah. The Sedgewick line runs closer to here than you’d think.”

He clipped the badge over his heart. The bold lettering of ‘PLAY HARD SPORTING GOODS’ took up most of it, with his name nearly buried beneath. “Tuesday and Saturday. Come early if you can.” Without a second glance, he locked his car and headed back inside.

The walk back to the bus stop was more taxing than she’d expected. It wasn't just that the electric guitar was heavier than her acoustic. The hard case didn’t have the same backpack straps her soft case did, so all the weight was on the arm holding up the handle. Switching hands only helped so much, since the one carrying would get sore before the other could fully recover. Knowing she’d soon have to lug an amp around as well, there was only one solution.

She’d have to get stronger.

**||: / / / / :||**

When Wolf wasn’t Wolf, she was Rachel, and Rachel played first snare in the Winslow marching band.

Where her mask covered everything but her glowering eyes, here her mirrored aviators left all else bare. Concessions to grooming began and ended with basic cleanliness. Tawny hair spilled down to her square jaw in unkempt tufts, an old haircut grown wild and tucked behind the ears. Her outfit consisted of a loose grey t-shirt, black basketball shorts, and ragged flat-soled sneakers stained a muddy brown around the soles. She held herself like a bear on its hind legs, walked around like a hiker climbing a slope, and was trailed by a trio of younger teens.

“Gojira. And the Butcher’s Teeth albums that didn’t suck.”

Taylor had to make a concerted effort to walk without stumbling. The weights strapped to her ankles and wrists weren’t especially heavy, but they added an unfamiliar inertia to her movements, making it harder to counteract the momentum in each step. “I thought most of them had at least a couple good songs.”

The football field was a short walk from the classrooms but that walk was fraught with hazards. Cracks in the pavement toed the line between ‘regular disrepair’ and ‘ recent small earthquake’. Side paths through the dirt had been tread into shallow trenches. Torn snack wrappers and crushed soda cans spilled from overfull trash cans and collected beneath the wooden bleachers.

She gave Taylor a look she couldn’t see, then turned away. “You’re allowed to be wrong.” She shrugged one shoulder and the marching harness resting on it shifted. When she gave the younger kids a nod they each put their own harnesses on properly, such that they rested on both shoulders and their drums were in playing position. “Lightning Bolt’s consistent, though. Never lazy or boring.”

The field itself was only slightly more intact. It boasted a traditional dirt field rather than astroturf, meaning it was more a broad mound than a flat rectangle and patches of dead or uprooted grass pockmarked the green. On the upside, it retained a more natural, earthy smell, which was a not-unwelcome break from urban sterility. On the downside, the grass was a few days overdue for a trim and had begun to spill over onto the track that wrapped around the whole thing.

Rachel left the others on the edge of the field with orders to do their warm-ups and behave, then led Taylor over to the center. The harness on her shoulder, she set down in the grass. The drum stand in her hand, she unfolded and placed between them. It opened up at the top so she could take the snare off her harness and set it in the stand securely.

“When a show gets busted, you have two options.” She held up a hand, counting on her fingers. “One, you get caught and you’re in deep shit. Two, you get the fuck out of there. We’ve lasted as long as we have ‘cause we got good at the second one.”

Taylor glanced at the kids, who were pulling well-used sticks and mallets from their harnesses and tapping rhythms on the rims of their drums. “Should we be talking about this in front of them?”

“They won’t snitch. And if they do, they’ll answer to me.” She eyed them over her shoulder, then turned back to Taylor. “Getaway plan is stupid simple. When it’s time to go, everyone’s responsible for their own gear, plus one drum. You take everything to the van in one trip and we’re out. Everyone pulls their weight.”

After a silent moment, Taylor said, “...Understood.”

Satisfied, she gestured towards the drum on the stand. “Your job is the snare. Today, you’re gonna pick it up, run it over to the thirty yard line, then run it back. Over and over ‘til you can’t anymore. No pauses, no jogging, just a straight sprint between these lines.”

“Why the weights, then, instead of my gear?”

“You think you can handle that already?”

Taylor didn’t respond.

“We’ll work you up to it. For now, do some stretches, then show me how you do with just the weights.”

As she was walking Taylor through some key stretches, one of the kids cried out, in outrage as much as pain. She told Taylor to “Keep it up,” and walked over to the others. “Who did what?”

The boy with a bowl cut and a bass drum on his harness said, “Marcus hit me in the back with a mallet!”

The other boy had a buzzcut and a bass drum of his own. He cried, “Bullshit! Jude tried to fuckin’ flat tire me and started faking when I was gonna call him on it!”

“You’re such a liar!”

“Am not, asshole!”

“Band ten hut!” Rachel barked.

In an instant the boys shut up and the three kids each snapped into a rigid stance.

Rachel looked to the olive-skinned girl on toms. “Ange?”

Ange looked straight ahead, perfectly poised, and spoke softly. “They were both being idiots.”

Rachel grunted, then turned to the boys and folded her arms. “Three laps.” When they opened their mouths to protest she added, “I can take this up with Larissa.”

Disgruntled but cowed, they removed their harnesses and took off down the track, each pushing themselves to outpace the other.

Rachel told Ange to go through a warm-up and walked back over to Taylor.

“Is Larissa your drum major?”

She bit out, “Our foster mom.”

The hollow thumping of Ange’s toms echoed against the empty bleachers. Her playing began with a simple rhythm on one tom, then built on itself, incorporating a new fundamental or pitch with each repetition. She was quite precise and consistent, but the slap of the boys’ sneakers on the track often drowned her out.

Taylor decided not to ask any more questions.

When she was done stretching, Rachel had her do a couple sprints without the snare to get used to the weights. A few back-and-forths without stumbling earned her the drum, which was a little easier to handle now that she was paying attention to her movements. Even so, sprinting and reversing over and over began to take a toll, and Rachel’s commands to maintain pace could only compel her to a point.

She was very much looking forward to the next break.

**||: / / / / :||**

When Duke wasn't Duke, he was Jean-Paul, and Jean-Paul didn't do much of anything.

On him, the crisp Immaculata uniform looked like the hide of his enemy's most precious pet. His blue-and-green plaid slacks were rolled up past the ankle, his shirt was untucked and halfway unbuttoned, and the sleeves of his indigo blazer were folded back along his forearms. A forest green tie wrapped loosely around his neck and draped over one shoulder like a scarf. Dark eyeliner matched his slicked-back hair. A sticker reading “Hello! My name is” had been plastered over the blazer’s emblem, left blank.

“Stravinsky’s ballets and Tenacious D. At the same time.” He tipped his chair back, legs propped up on another chair. One last bite finished off his fast food burger, after which he licked his fingers clean. “You have to do it in a DAW. Set to stereo, one track in each ear. It’s really the only way either one is listenable.”

Taylor, for lack of a response, simply sipped her free water cup. It was more ice than water, which meant she had to nurse it slowly or she’d soon be without an excuse not to talk. The cold numbed her tongue, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

Arcadia’s backstage area was a cramped space, a consequence of racks upon racks of costumes and more props than really seemed necessary. Their little cluster of metal foldout chairs was the only space not designated for foot traffic or the theatre program’s leftovers. Low, warm lighting gave the black walls and floor a subtle luster, imbued limp costumes with an echo of the life they must have had on stage.

“Alexandria! the Musical, but nightcored.” He made a languid come-hither gesture to a girl with a green streak in her hair. Without looking up from her handheld game system, she took a fry from his bag and fed it to him, like a grape off the vine. He spoke while he was still chewing. “Les Mis songs paulstretched to be ten hours long.”

“Why are we here?” Taylor blurted.

“I’ll get to that. Lemme finish eating first.” He gestured again, and this time the girl simply dropped the bag onto his stomach. Unphased, he started digging the last fries from the bottom.

“No, I mean, why Arcadia?”

“Mm, trust me, even I can’t stand most of the stuck-up pricks at Immaculata.”

She suspected the feeling was mutual. “I’m surprised they let you join another school’s program.”

“They probably wouldn’t. I just come here to bother their most valuable tech.” He reached over with his free hand and mussed the girl's hair, prompting her to smack his hand away. That sparked a vicious slapfight between them for all of five seconds, after which they returned to their original positions, all antagonism dispersed. “You couldn’t pay me to commit to a school program anyways.”

“Or anything,” the girl mumbled.

“Exactly.” He crumpled up the bag and set it atop a replica treasure chest, then let his chair teeter back down. “So that’s why I’m here. You’re here because we need to put together a costume for you.” His arms spread before the rows of clothing racks. “Pick a jacket or coat that doesn’t suck and we’ll go from there.”

Taylor’s shoulders stiffened. “No.”

That elicited the first look of surprise she’d seen on him. “Beg pardon?”

“My parka’s fine.” Her hands retreated into her sleeves, clutching the loose fabric. “I like my parka.”

“It’s not exactly something people would be afraid of, though, unless you’re trying to be a prep’s nightmare.”

“If the theme is so important, why did you choose Duke?”

“Nothing’s scarier than aristocracy. Plus, if we ever make it big, I can ape The Artist Formerly Known as Marquis’ whole deal.”

She chewed on her lip, thoughts racing for some way out. “What specifically is wrong with my parka?”

His head tipped to one side a bit. “...Honestly, if it were just a different color, I could work with it. The silhouette on its own would give you some good options. It’s just, the olive is so…” He gave a lazy roll of his hand. “...drab.”

“Oh.” After a moment’s hesitation, she shimmied out of the coat, keeping her grip on the sleeves as she pulled her arms free. After a moment’s fumbling, she flipped the rest of it inside-out as well, then shrugged it on again.

The inside had every feature the outside had. Deep pockets to warm her hands, extra pouches to hold all her things, a high collar she could hide part of her face behind. The only difference was, the inside was pitch black.

Jean-Paul got to his feet, looking her over with a new vigor. “Should’ve just said it was reversible. Stand up?”

She obliged.

“Hm.” He circled her, stopping every now and then to adjust her posture with a light push. “Arms straight down. Shoulders back. Stand taller; imagine a string tugging on the top of your head.” He paused for a long moment, taking her in.

It was all she could do not to fidget or release the tension in her frame. “How long do I have to do this?”

He shook his head and went back to work, reversing each adjustment he’d made. “Put a little bend in your knees. Bring your arms forward and hunch over more. Like you do when you’re playing.” This time, when he stepped back, he was smirking, looking at her through a frame made with his fingers. “Perfect. You like red?”

“Uh. Why?”

“Everyone in the band wears black plus one other color for contrast. Red is Lisa’s color already, buuuut she was the one who brought you on, so she can just deal.”

“Red is fine.” After a moment, she added, “The guitar Brian gave me is red.”

“Even better.” He turned to one of the clothing racks and started digging. “Aisha, you still got those sunglasses from the cyberpunk Shakespeare thing? I need four- no, five. Just in case.”

The girl sprung into action, her game forgotten. She navigated the mess of props with ease, beelining for a stack of cardboard boxes against the wall. She nabbed one and brought it back, sticking to Jean-Paul’s side as he rummaged.

“No… too dull… too saturated… oh?” He pulled a long, flowing cape from its hanger, spreading it out with both hands. It was a silken thing whose rich, deep crimson color commanded attention. He glanced at Aisha. “You’re not doing this version of Phantom again, are you?”

Aisha shook her head.

Feeling distinctly awkward, Taylor maintained her slouch as the pair moved to stand behind her. She felt a pressure against the small of her back, about midway down the length of her parka.

“Am I good or am I good?” Jean-Paul muttered.

“Downright visionary, boss,” Aisha deadpanned.

“Tell me, Rose,” he said, “how do you feel about spiders?”

She shrugged. Insects in general were something she’d become quite accustomed to over the last few years. The lockers didn’t keep them out as well as a proper building would, so infestations were much harder to curb. Ants and roaches became persistent annoyances in their respective seasons and bed bugs could spread from locker to locker with ease. Spiders, on the other hand, kept to themselves, stayed in their webs, and fed on other bugs. “They’re cool.”

“Then consider this your second christening,” he drawled, self-satisfied. “Tall, dark, and skittish, I dub thee _Widow._ ”


End file.
